


Servitude

by Muriel_Perun



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy tale violence, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Not partner rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 06:52:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4425578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muriel_Perun/pseuds/Muriel_Perun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thor makes a reckless bet, and Loki pays the price--which could be his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Servitude

**Author's Note:**

> This is a new story--never before posted or published anywhere.

From the desolate plains below and up the mountain pass, a cold wind blew. It soughed through the turrets of the castle and tossed Loki’s long hair back from his shoulders, where he stood on the ramparts of the castle. His eyelids fluttered closed.

Thor was close. Loki could feel it.

For the last year, Loki had been a slave. He had not wished to serve, had not wished to submit himself, body and will, to his master’s every whim. He had served, and he had waited, and finally he had prevailed. But he was not the same young innocent he had been the year before. He had been harmed, and he had hardened. The cold wind that caressed his face no longer inspired him to do great deeds, but left a bitter taste on his lips, in his teeth.

This year of misery had been Thor’s fault. Through his carelessness Thor had ensnared Loki in this trap and then abandoned him. Now Loki had a plan—how to greet his brother and his companions, how to manipulate them to serve his will.

***

Odin believed in sending young men out to seek adventure, to let them see things they had never seen, to let them use their own judgment to face and vanquish danger. Frigga was not so sure.

“Your brother is reckless,” she had said to Loki, clasping his hands in both of hers, “and his friends, however brave, are useless at stopping him. They do whatever he proposes and then look to him to get them out of whatever scrapes he gets them into.”

Loki smiled at her. He loved it that she had confidence in him, and that she confided in him about Thor and his shortcomings, which no one else ever seemed to see, least of all Odin.

“But you, my son, you are wise for your years, and you see into men’s hearts, as I do. Try to keep Thor out of trouble. I know he does not always listen to you, so use whatever means you have to hold him back from disaster.”

By that, Loki knew she meant magic, and he wished again that he had made even quicker strides in his studies of it, although Frigga was well pleased with his progress. “I will, mother,” he murmured. “Don’t worry so much. We’ll be fine.”

Like any young man recently come of age, he had been eager to leave, looking forward to the unknown with both excitement and trepidation. He should have feared more. He should have been more watchful. He knew now that he, also, had looked to Thor to save them all from the very things Thor blundered into, but this time even Thor had been helpless.

***

If there was one thing that Loki and the Warriors Three agreed on—and there weren’t many—it was that there was nothing better than traveling with Thor.

In case of danger, he fought like a tornado, striking blows with Mjolnir, wading fearlessly into enemy ranks and ripping their formations to shreds. Afterwards, at taverns or at the palaces of friendly sovereigns, he told the best stories, and since women flocked to him, there were always a few left over for his companions.

And if there were two things they agreed on, it was that there was nothing worse than traveling with Thor when the dice came out. In that case, wild horses could not drag him away from his fate, which was to lose everything that he had brought with him and anything he was able to coax from his friends.

Loki knew he couldn’t prevent Thor from drinking himself into a state where he didn’t know if he was being cheated or not, so he always stayed with his brother to the bitter end, although he knew it would always end badly. And so Loki had kept his promise to Frigga by putting himself in harm’s way.

Tonight, amazingly, Thor was winning, and Loki had to keep reminding himself to breathe. Unfortunately, Loki wasn’t able to convince him to quit while he was ahead, and so, inevitably, things took their predestined downward course.

Finally, only two players remained at the table: Thor and a prosperous-looking merchant named Justinius, a mild little man, a bit soft around the edges with fine dining and pampered living, a man whose bets were conservative where Thor’s were daring, and whose quiet perseverance finally paid off as Thor began losing to him—slowly at first, and then spectacularly, and all at once.

They came to that moment in the evening that Thor’s companions feared the most. Thor was destitute, and so were they, except for what they had been able to conceal from him. And yet Thor was still casting around for something to bet. Justinius suggested Mjolnir. Loki’s heart skipped a beat, but Thor laughed heartily, and Loki realized that Thor, drunk as he was, still remembered when the Giant Thrymr had won Mjolnir from him, and he and Loki were forced to pose as women to sneak into his compound and recover her. Perhaps Thor was capable of learning after all.

But when Justinius mildly suggested that, if Thor still wished to bet, they could make an arrangement whereby if Thor lost—which was highly unlikely, of course—he or one of his companions—Justinius’ choice—would agree to serve him for a year—well, that would be worth several rounds at least.

Thor at least had the sense to look at his friends, all of whom immediately clamored against it, but Thor set his lower lip, and Loki knew that look. It meant that, no matter how foolish the plan, Thor was going ahead with it.

“Think, brother,” Loki whispered, “what if he picks Hogun, or Fandral, or Volstagg, or me? What will you do then?”

Thor laughed heartily. “Why would he choose one of you when he could have me? You call yourself clever, brother, but can you not see that it is but a ruse to get me to serve him?”

“Think what he might ask you to do, brother,” Loki insisted. “What if he asks you to do something dishonorable?”

“Bah,” Thor spat contemptuously, “in that case I would be quit of my oath.”

Loki was at the end of his rope. “An oath is not invalidated just because you didn’t foresee all its consequences, brother.” He leaned in so no one could hear. “At least ask for some conditions,” he murmured in Thor’s ear. “You have to be alive at the end of the year—he can’t kill you. And your service has to take place near his home—and he can’t make you fight Asgard, or Vanaheim, or Midgard. And he can’t ask you to kill anyone. And make him swear by his strength.” It was a powerful oath, though not all believed in it; myth had it that a man who took such an oath and was forsworn would lose his greatest gift, and that evil luck would follow him the rest of his days.

Thor asked for these conditions and more—everything Loki suggested, in fact—but he would not desist from betting. In turn, the merchant promised to give each one of Thor’s companions a steed laden with treasure from his personal store, provided that Thor carried the day. He also added a condition, which Thor expansively accepted on behalf of all: if Thor lost, he and his companions would travel to Justinius’ castle, where they could enjoy his opulent hospitality until the choice of servant was made. Thor swore by Mjolnir, and Justinius, as Loki had suggested, swore by his strength.

As soon as Thor agreed to the bet, Hogun refused to be a part of it. “Foolishness!” he cried in a fury. “Greed! You must stop this insanity now.” Justinius magnanimously agreed to leave Hogun out of it, another reason Thor believed that he would be the one chosen in case of disaster.

Loki was too well accustomed to Thor’s foolishness, but greed? This was the first time Loki had seen Thor’s eyes shine when someone spoke of treasure. It made his gut twist in fear and disappointment. He had always thought Thor to be nobler than that. Was he still such a child that he craved riches? Was there not already enough gold in Asgard? Why would he put himself and his friends at risk for trifles?

But the avarice in Thor’s eyes soon faded, and the treasure evaporated into what might have been, because Thor lost five tosses in a row and found himself faced with a year’s servitude to a man he knew nothing about.

Justinius acted almost embarrassed by his victory and suggested that they all enjoy a good night’s sleep at the inn before accompanying him to his castle in the mountains where he would make his choice.

After Thor’s loss, they all said brief goodnights and went to bed. Hogun had some choice words for Thor’s stupidity, but he agreed to ride with them anyway. No one was happy, and Thor was in a particularly foul and depressed mood, especially since he was starting to come out of his drunken stupor.

“Why did you let me do it, Loki?” he grumbled. “You know how I get. Why did you not stop me?”

Loki scoffed. “Brother, a herd of bilgesnipes in heat couldn’t stop you when you set your mind to gambling.” Loki knew they would all blame him, of course, as they always did. Tomorrow he would hear from Volstagg and Fandral about how Frigga had sent him to make sure Thor didn’t get into any trouble, and what good was he otherwise? And then they would go through their usual litany of his shortcomings. Hogun did not join in these sessions, although once he had asked his fellow warriors why they made no effort to stop Thor’s foolishness, if they thought it so easy. Loki had not forgotten that one bit of understanding.

Thor pulled at the catches on his armor with clumsy hands until Loki sighed and helped him strip down to his undergarments. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, and Loki was grateful that the bed was large, because, even so, Thor took up most of it. Loki squeezed in alongside his brother, got as comfortable as possible, and found that he couldn’t sleep.

The events of the evening would not leave his head. Something odd was going on here. Justinius, modest as he seemed, was no ordinary merchant. Every time he had spoken, Loki felt a chill up his spine. The more he observed the man, the more disturbing things he noticed. For one thing, Justinius presented himself as a well-to-do trader of fine cloth, and yet he had no retinue, no merchandise. He said that his assistants took care of all that, but Loki wondered how he could stay so far from his livelihood and yet remain so prosperous. And, dressed and appointed as he was, why did he not fear robbers on the road?

And then there was the trip to his castle. Why require that they all be present? Why not make the choice here and leave with his prize? What task did the man have in mind for Thor, if it was really Thor he wanted? No, Justinius was no ordinary merchant, and Loki feared to learn what he had in store for them.

Loki wished he were a stronger mage so that he might have manipulated the dice in Thor’s favor. He could easily have moved the dice with magic, but they would no longer have fallen naturally enough to fool anyone. After this debacle, he would work harder at mastering that trick, despite Thor’s disapproval of cheating. If Thor continued to be blinded by avarice, Loki had to find a way to keep him out of danger.

Under Frigga’s tutelage he had learned some simple magic—making things appear and disappear, for example—and was moving on to more complex spells. Recently he had mastered the art of disappearing and creating a double, though he could only hold the illusion for a few seconds. He had been very proud of this accomplishment until Thor had laughed and asked what use that trick would be in battle to anyone but a coward. Sometimes Loki wanted to pound his brother into oblivion. But mostly Loki just adored him, no matter what he said or did.

Thor mumbled in his sleep and turned, throwing an arm over Loki’s chest. Loki wanted nothing better than to turn into Thor’s embrace, but he did not dare to indulge himself. If Thor, or the others, ever knew, or even suspected, what he felt when he was close to his brother, then….

His cock betrayed him, hardening as he lay there, miserable and desperate, in Thor’s close embrace. He was a monster, an incestuous freak, but he could not tame his aberrant desire. Finally he took a risk, since Thor seemed deeply unconscious, and reached out a hand to relieve his discomfort as quickly and unobtrusively as he could, using his newly acquired _seidr_ to make all traces of his shame disappear. Then he fell into a deep sleep and only awakened at dawn, when a hung-over Thor asked him gruffly if he intended to sleep all day.

***

At sunrise they gathered their meager belongings and set off for Justinius’ castle, traveling first over plains of wildflowers that inclined slowly towards the distant mountains, lying majestic and snow-capped at the horizon. As the day dragged on, the land rose, becoming more and more barren. Rough outcroppings of rock and desert scrub replaced tender flowering plants, and, as the sun dipped towards the horizon behind them, they entered a narrow pass and began moving steadily upwards.

The trail rose quickly, slowing their pace, and the rugged mountain peaks sprung up around them, sharp as teeth. Their tops were heavy with snow, glittering bright red-gold in the light of the setting sun, while the deep valleys that lay in shadow beneath the treacherous road faded into purple, their depths invisible except for the occasional glimpse of a silver river, winding through hidden gorges below.

At last, hours beyond the last village, they saw the castle, nearly at the top of one of the highest peaks. A fortress it was, built in ancient days, with a thick, wooden door that opened silently as they approached, just as the last glow of sunlight faded completely away. No one came out to greet them, but torches had been set along the walls to guide them on their way.

Justinius instructed them to leave their mounts in the stable, saying that his servants would care for them. To Thor’s annoyance, Loki dared to ask why they saw no one, and Justinius replied that he paid handsomely for unobtrusive service, that it was a quirk of his that he did not wish to see his servants at their tasks.

And someone must have been there, because, when they had seen their luxurious rooms—with the beds made and turned down as if they had been expected—and when they had washed away the dust of the road and descended to the dining hall, an enormous repast had been set out, with enough food, and wine, and ale for three times their number. They set to eagerly after their long journey, but Loki noticed that none of them accepted more than one tankard of ale, and he was glad of it. He thought they would need their wits about them in this place, and apparently the others felt it too. There was a closeness in the air, a tension, as of some unseen presence pressing in upon them.

They went to bed right after dinner, still not having seen a servant. This time Loki had his own room, his own bed. The sheets were cold, and the fire in the grate did not seem cheerful or warm. The house was as still as the grave. Loki only fell asleep near dawn and awoke when Volstagg banged at his door to fetch him down to breakfast.

***

As it had been the night before, the table was set and spread with countless delicacies: rare fruits that they could not put a name to, garlands of grapes on the vine that shone like jewels, breads of every description, succulent juices and steaming beverages that they had never tasted. And yet none of the young men exhibited much of an appetite that morning, preoccupied as they were by Justinius and his choice of servant. Thor, thinking he would be chosen, was the calmest of all, showing a proud demeanor that Loki had to admire.

Their host had not yet appeared. And still they saw not one retainer, not one single person in the castle apart from themselves and Justinius.

When the breakfast was over, Justinius finally appeared at table with them. He solemnly poured himself a cup of some steaming drink redolent of rich, exotic spices.

“I trust you slept well?” he asked courteously, looking at each of them in turn around the table. They all murmured false assent. “Very well. Now,” he said, nodding, “to the matter that brings you all here. The matter of who is to serve me for a year.” He sipped his drink cautiously, so as not to burn his tongue, and smiled at the taste. “Who would not wish to stay here? My life is luxurious, is it not? But the life of my slave shall not be.” Rising from the table, he began to leave the room.

“But, sir,” Thor remonstrated, stepping forward, “you have yet to make a choice. Or are we all free to go?”

Justinius turned, an amused smile on his cultured face. “The choice is made,” he said. “One of you will feel his captivity before I have finished speaking.”

At Thor’s side, Loki made a strangled sound and dropped to his knees, hands at his throat, his eyes wide with disbelief. Around his neck the others could see a simple silver chain that had not been there before.

“No,” Thor said, his voice rising in anger, “no, it is not my brother who will serve you, it is I. I lost the bet, and I must pay the debt.”

Justinius suddenly looked sterner, taller. His face changed and his body lengthened, until they saw standing before them a tall, ascetic man with not a trace of the mannered, soft gentleman they had followed to this place. This man wore stark robes of dark cloth. His hair was tinged with gray, his hands knotted with years, his face lined with experience, and yet he exuded an aura of power that gave even Thor pause.

“We had an agreement,” Justinius said, “and I will honor it. Loki is the one I choose for my servant. The rest of you shall leave my house now and not return for a year.”

“We are princes of Asgard, sons of Odin,” Thor said, taking a step towards him. “Our father will not take kindly to this offense.”

“Odin honors his agreements,” Justinius said calmly, “no matter how disadvantageous they may turn out to be in the sober light of day.”

And all this time, Loki remained on his knees, gasping, hands at his throat, barely able to breathe.

“Why would you want my brother?” Thor asked, taking another tack. “I am stronger than he and can do more work for you, more great deeds, if such are needed. Loki is barely out of childhood,” he scoffed, “and he has no great strength in battle.”

Justinius laughed heartily. “Oh, but you are wrong. How blind you are! He possesses the greatest strength of any of you, though it has not yet shown itself. Now begone! Return in a year, and not before.”

He waved a hand, and suddenly, without any notion how they got there, Thor and the Warriors Three found themselves back on their mounts halfway down the mountain, with all their affairs packed in their satchels.

When Loki thought about it later, he imagined what happened next like this:

Thor would immediately turn his horse around, while the others tried to dissuade him.

“Justinius is powerful,” Fandral would say. “He is sworn not to kill Loki, but he could kill us for returning to his castle. We will not do Loki any good. Better to return in a year and make sure Loki is released on time.”

“If we had an army, I would say ‘Go back!’”—this, of course, was Volstagg—“but I know not how to do battle with a mage. Let us wait, as Fandral says.”

Thor would think a moment and agree. “But let us wander for a year and complete our commissions for Odin. It is better that Frigga and Odin hear what happened after all is well.”

“If at all,” Fandral would add waggishly. “No harm will come to Loki—he designed the agreement himself. And, you must admit, it’s a neat trick against the trickster. It’s about time someone fooled him.”

Hogun would scoff and frown and say, “Thor has made his bed, and now his brother must lie in it.”

And, truth be told, Loki was not far off the mark.

When the others disappeared, Loki could finally breathe again, but now he was choked by fear. He had seen what Justinius really was—no merchant, but a great and powerful mage.

Justinius turned to him and said, “I have taken you that you may learn to be a sorcerer. I will teach you many things. Your life will be hard, and so you will learn, through suffering, what it means to wield and control a great talent like yours. If you disobey me, you will be punished. If you obey me, sometimes you will still be punished. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Loki said, his voice a rasping whisper, “but I have a question.”

“Ask it,” Justinius said, with no trace of benevolence.

“What if I stayed as your apprentice of my own free will?” he asked meekly. “Why take me prisoner, when I would be happy to learn at your feet?”

The mage’s eyes darkened with fury. “You are a skilled liar. If you lie to me again you will regret it.” He gestured with one finger, and Loki was naked, then clothed in loose pants and a tunic made from rustic cloth. “Go outside the kitchen and fetch the wood that lies there. Pile it by the stove. Do not stop until all the wood is inside.”

Loki did as he was told, but found that, every time he went out for another load, there was more wood. Finally he stopped, exhausted, and sat down on the kitchen floor, awaiting his punishment. Justinius did not come again, but Loki passed the night there, on the hard, slick tiles of the kitchen floor, shivering and alone, surrounded by piles of seasoned wood that no spark could strike into flame.

***

The days of Loki’s captivity passed slowly, each different from the last, but also depressingly the same as all the others.

Every day, he did menial labor that taxed his body and his patience. He carried wood and water, fed the horses and cleaned their stalls, and performed other tasks that Justinius had until now been doing with magic. When his work was not done well enough—which was always—he was punished: beaten with a leather strap or a stick, choked with the silver chain, or deprived of food or clothing. Sometimes he was summoned to Justinius’ workshop, where, under his master’s watchful eye, he ground powders, put away supplies, or kept the fire steady while Justinius prepared a spell. At these tasks he was much more skilled than at chopping wood or currying horses. He had helped Frigga with similar work, and, of course, he wished to learn as many spells as he could.

Although Justinius had called him an apprentice, Loki had learned very little so far besides how many strokes he could stand from a leather lash on his bare back before crying out, and how many splinters he could get in his palms from carrying a load of firewood. Loki had not tried outright rebellion or refusal, only because he feared the silver chain, and he knew that Justinius’ power extended far beyond the relatively light punishments he had experienced.

One night he learned that he had more freedom than he had thought. His shoulders ached from a beating and he couldn’t find a comfortable place to lay his body down. Because he could not sleep, he began cautiously to wander through the palace, and that was how he first learned that Justinius often left the fortress at night. If he paid attention to his master’s evening preparations, he knew when he would be free to wander. He began to sneak into the workshop and read spell books all night by the light of the moon or a conjured flame until he could read no more. Afterwards he would creep back to the kitchen and sleep until his master woke him with a kick, and would spend the day fighting drowsiness as he stumbled through his dreary chores.

Sometimes he secretly put aside small amounts of various magical ingredients during the day in the workshop so that he could cast simple spells at night. Finally, with no help from his master, Loki was learning to use his _seidr_. Although he feared the consequences of being caught, he feared the consequences of doing nothing more.

This state of things went on for half the year, and Loki continued to ask when he would be allowed to learn more spells, despite the punishments that followed, so that Justinius would not wonder why he had stopped asking.

Loki lived a semi-feral life in the castle. Dressed in rags, filthy, his hair long and tangled, his back and arms always covered with half-healed welts, he spent much of his time crouched in corners watching Justinius for signs of displeasure, or fighting the rats for food in the kitchen, when he was not at his tiresome labors. But, because of his sessions at night, his _seidr_ had grown stronger, his spell-casting more adept.

One night, he explored a part of the castle that he had never seen—his master’s personal quarters. He went boldly into Justinius’ chamber, having detected no magical traps, but found nothing of great value to him there, aside from thick tapestries on the walls, and a floor covered with soft rugs, pillows, and coverlets. There was also a broad hearth that still glowed warm with embers from an earlier fire, and a bed he was afraid to lie down on, even for a moment, lest he fall asleep and awake after Justinius’ return.

Prowling down the unfamiliar hallway, he came to a door that had around it an aura of old magic, and a whiff of danger that intrigued him. Not being caught all this time had made him reckless. He entered the room, and what he saw there changed everything, once and for all, and for the rest of his life. From that moment on, he was saved. From that moment on, he was damned.

It was a small room, slightly larger than a closet, with walls of rough stone, bare of tapestries like most of the rooms Loki frequented. Ancient books were piled haphazardly on the floor, their yellowed pages redolent of mold and rotted leather. Above, them, hanging from iron hooks set in the stone, he saw—were they garments? He took a step inside. No, not garments, unless the flesh was a garment, and then these were such.

In the dimness, a dozen or more human corpses, dry as parchment and as brown, hung from the hooks, impaled through the skin of their necks, with their skulls bent forward towards Loki like drooping flowers, a magical symbol carved deep into the forehead of every one. Around the neck of each there dangled a silver chain. And at once Loki knew why he was there, and how he was meant to serve Justinius, and why he had been a fool ever to believe he was an apprentice. All the labors, all the punishments, all the freedom to roam at night—they had been distractions. These grisly remnants—they were the truth of his servitude.

Hands seized him then, and dragged him back to Justinius’ chamber, where his master—his future murderer—beat him savagely with a heavy rod until he felt sure it would break his bones.

“Flýja!” Loki cried, and the rod flashed green and was gone. He and Justinius exchanged a look, each as shocked as the other.

“You were not meant to know,” Justinius snarled through thin lips. “How much simpler it would have been if you did not know. And, above all, you were not meant to learn the use of magic. The others, all young men, all untried like you, they crept through my house seeking a warm place to sleep, but you—you have been reading my spell books, have you not?” He laughed and shook his head. “All the study in the world will avail you nothing. It will still happen. I will have your powers, and you will die and take your place in my storeroom with the others.”

“Why do you keep them?” Loki could not stop himself from asking, his lip curled in disgust.

“To remember my victories,” answered Justinius. “Because each of their powers lends a different shade, a different flavor, to my strength.”

“You cannot kill me until the year is up,” Loki said with more bravado than he felt. “Thor and the others will come back and we will fight you.”

“Do not set your heart on rescue,” Justinius said with a sure, evil smile. “Thor and the others are hexed. They will wander in the mountains for many months, but they will never find my castle again. The best you can hope for is that there will be a term to your suffering. When the year is up, I will remove the chain from your throat, and the next instant I will kill you. It will take no longer to do than it took to say it.”

“Do not be so sure I will die on command,” Loki said, knowing full well that his defiance would cost him dearly. “Perhaps you will die before I do.”

“Do not be so sure that I will not hang you on a hook before you die,” Justinius growled, his eyes flashing with anger. “Until the silver collar leaves your throat you are in thrall to me, and if I die before I remove it, then you will die with me.” The chain tightened around Loki’s throat, cutting off his impudence. “If you had not thought to make me swear by my strength, you would be among them already, hanging in the place that awaits you. The others were in my service bare weeks before I knew them thoroughly and took their budding powers for my own. I must suffer your presence another half-year before I can take you. It is your choice whether you pass that time as you are now or in continual agony.”

Justinius stopped talking then and set about whipping him. This beating lasted longer than any of the others, and, though he tried, Loki was not able to make the leather strap disappear.

***

That night Loki was locked in Justinius’ bedchamber while Justinius went elsewhere, so for the first time since his captivity he was able to curl up in a nest of pillows with a blanket over him. Despite what had happened he fell into a deep sleep and had a wonderful dream.

Thor came to him there, where he lay by Justinius’ hearth, and told him that Justinius was vanquished, and that Thor and his friends had come to take Loki home. Loki knew it was a dream, and he gave himself up to it, so much had he yearned to see Thor’s face, to hear his voice again, to feel his touch. Thor invited him to share the enormous bed, and Loki agreed, falling into its softness next to his brother. At first they spoke of many things: of their parents, of Asgard, of people they both knew. And for the first time in his life, Loki was sick with longing for his home, and wished he could be there in Odin’s palace, in his chamber with his books.

Then Thor put his arms around Loki and kissed him, and Loki was more sure than ever that he was deep in a dream, because wasn’t this his heart’s desire that he had nurtured in secret for so many years? He kissed Thor back, and they held each other and kissed until Thor asked Loki if he could take him, and Loki agreed. Saying Loki’s name tenderly, Thor entered him, and there was no pain at all, as Loki had always feared there would be. And Thor pushed into him, harder and harder, until Loki cried out his pleasure, and—strange thing for a dream—fell asleep in his brother’s arms. And when he awoke he was alone in Justinius’ bed, and the pain told him that he had been unmanned, and he knew it had not been Thor.

***

After that night Loki spent his days in Justinius’ room, his nights in Justinius’ bed, or, when the sorcerer was away, he still dared to prowl through the halls. After taking a few minor precautions, Justinius seemed unconcerned about Loki’s ability to oppose him. Since he had learned Justinius’ secret, Loki had never again been able to find the spell books. The workshop door had disappeared, the wall there as smooth as if there had never been an opening.

No longer having new spells to learn, when he was left alone Loki would think through the spells that he knew from Asgard, or ones that he had read. He feared to try them, afraid to leave a trace, or to be caught if Justinius returned early. Even thinking through the spells seemed dangerous. If Justinius knew magic that could turn Loki’s dreams against him, could he see also into Loki’s mind? Loki did not think it likely, though he feared it all the same. But thinking was his only weapon; no matter how dangerous, he must choose to wield it.

He knew enough not to trust his dreams, but that did not mean he was free from them. He dreamed of Thor again, fucking him with abandon, and he could not help responding to it, so close it was to his longtime fantasy, although he knew now it was his master in disguise. Other times he was taken by Justinius while he was awake, and eventually he responded to this also, hating himself for it. He knew himself to be perverse, taking pleasure in incest and rape, and yet in his present state, weakened by semi-starvation and constant beatings, living much of his life in a delirium of dread and anger and lack of sleep, he could not fight the instinct to take pleasure in any closeness that was offered him.

In Justinius’s bed he learned the ways of pleasure. His master’s hands were skilled and firm, but, for once, far from cruel. Entering Loki’s most vulnerable place, he smoothed the way with balm. Justinius enjoyed it when Loki made sounds of pleasure, so Loki withheld them as much as he was able. This spurred Justinius to make him frantic with lust until guttural sounds of need or relief escaped him. When Loki lost himself in pleasure, Justinius laughed low in his throat. Every time Loki heard that laugh, humiliation slammed into his chest like a hammer blow, forcing the air from his lungs. He dreamed of being able to conjure a dagger and eviscerate his tormentor as he took his pleasure. But such a spell was still beyond him.

One night he dreamt of Odin and Frigga. They were in Odin’s treasury, deep below his citadel, and all the treasures of Asgard were there, even Mjolnir. Odin explained each one to Loki, as he had when Thor and Loki were children, dreaming of the day when they would win great battles themselves.

“Where is Thor?” Loki asked suddenly.

Frigga looked surprised. “Oh, Loki, you know that Thor is king.”

“But, why, mother?” Loki asked, shocked. “Father used to tell us that we were both born to be kings. Why can I not be king?”

Instead of answering, Odin led him to the end of the treasury where the Casket of Winters sat in lone splendor. “Take it, Loki,” he said, “it is your birthright.”

“My birthright? How?” Loki was aghast. “It was taken from Jotunheim. What has that to do with me?”

Frigga shook her head sadly. “Odin made me nurture a viper in the breast of Asgard. One day you will eat out Asgard’s heart and destroy it, as you will destroy everything you love. It is who you were born to be.”

When Loki tried to embrace her, she pushed him away, and he awoke on the floor before the unlit hearth, shaking with cold.

Justinius stood and watched him with a little smile of pleasure on his face. “You did not know,” he said with satisfaction. “Thor is not your brother. You could have coupled with him without fear of incest.”

“Thor _is_ my brother,” Loki said firmly, his voice trembling.

“You were raised as brothers, but it is a lie—a grand lie to fool the liar. You were taken from Jotunheim by Odin when he took the Casket of Winters. You are a spoil of war, raised as an Asgardian prince.”

“No!” But, even as he protested, Loki started to feel that it was true. Why else did he look so different than Thor and his parents? Why did he have vague memories of a blurred blue face over his, of crooned words he could not understand? “How do you know these things?” he asked wearily, conceding what he could not deny.

Justinius laughed. “So, you admit it? You feel it in your flesh, in your bones, do you not? I have informants in Odin’s court and elsewhere, and they tell me things no others know.”

Loki resolved that, if ever he escaped this trap and returned to Odin’s court, he would root out those informants and give them a swift and painful death, so that no others would ever think it was worth the risk to reveal Asgard’s secrets. (Were they members of Odin’s elite guard, the only ones still living who had accompanied him to Jotunheim?) This he would do not for Odin, but for himself, out of the humiliation he had just experienced from learning that someone knew of his history and his shame before he did. Loki was a fiend, born of a race of monsters. Odin would never let him be king.

And from there Loki’s anger blossomed out to include Odin and Frigga, who knew what he was but had not told him, and then to those who did not know—Thor and his friends. He vowed to revenge himself, first on this nemesis who had revealed his infamy, and then on all the others.

*******

And then, one night, a few weeks after he had discovered his fate, Loki sensed that Justinius had left, and he opened the lock on the bedroom door with a spell and went to the closet where those he had come to think of as the Apprentices were kept. The door opened easily; it had not even been locked. Justinius must have believed Loki would fear to return there. The books were piled carelessly on the floor beneath the dangling bodies as they had been before, old books in scripts that Loki could barely read, but, he thought, even more valuable for that—a cache of old knowledge that Justinius had tossed away.

After studying with Frigga, Loki knew that Justinius was the kind of sorcerer that she held in great contempt, the kind who performed spells to harm others and to profit himself. And because he did not perform magic for the love of it, he did not truly understand the essence of the spells he cast, except as a means to an end. The old, theoretical, esoteric, difficult texts held no interest for him, but for Loki they were fascinating. Desperate as he was, he thought perhaps he might find an idea behind a spell there that would free him, something Justinius had overlooked or did not understand.

Justinius had once again begun leaving the palace at night, and Loki had a chance to prowl. So as not to raise suspicion, he was meek and submissive during the day, using his very real dread of being beaten and raped to give the impression that he was now too broken to resist his fate. He had learned to fool Justinius with his lies by incorporating enough truth so that every lie cost him a price—a moment when he had to let the terror of his situation inhabit him. As time went on, Justinius feared him less and less, and that was Loki’s only advantage.

At night, he read madly, frantically searching for something he could use, and yet unable to resist rereading, considering and pondering each idea in its singular beauty, for the links it made to things he already knew, a vast web of interconnections. The study of ideas and philosophy came naturally to him. Magic was his great gift—he knew it more than ever, now that he was on the verge of senselessly losing his life. He was in the power of a petty, greedy man who preyed on young men whose powers were all untapped, and then collected the bodies of his victims to relive the pleasure he had taken in murdering them.

Loki read in the closet with a conjured flame, sitting at the feet of the Apprentices as they seemed to look down on him with their hollow eyes and jeering mouths. He knew their names now, from a ledger he had found, and he spoke to them, not knowing which was which or who they had really been, but imagining that they knew he was there, seeking vengeance for them all. Sometimes, in waking dreams, Loki, frenzied and exhausted, half asleep, seemed to hear their ghostly voices whispering like the touch of skeletal fingers around the edge of his consciousness.

And in the end he found something in one of his books that started his mind down the path that would save him. It was a poem, written by a mortal mage a few hundred years before, the kind of thing that Thor would scoff at. But it started Loki thinking.

 

Like calls to like,

Self calls to same.

Beginnings’ fragile threads

Unravel the roots of the world.

 

There followed a summoning spell that Loki at first could not make sense of, but when he did, it opened in his mind like a flower.

Through long days of labor and pain, through all the aggressions he suffered, Loki thought through this spell, never giving Justinius a hint of the universe of ideas he kept within his mind, coming ever closer to finding a truth that was at once a way out and a key to his own self.

Then they were down to a precious few days. Justinius was eager. He could already taste his victory, having seen no signs of serious resistance from his prisoner, and so he taunted Loki constantly, beat him less but raped him more often. Loki was full of fury that distracted him from the calm he needed to have a chance at casting a string of spells that he had never cast before. Sometimes just thinking about what he was about to attempt threw him down into despair. He imagined Justinius laughing at his failure, blasting him away without a thought and stealing the powers that he had worked so hard to augment and refine. And the worst was that no one would ever know what had happened to him.

The day came, and Loki had not slept the night before. Justinius had left him alone, less out of compassion, Loki imagined, than from a desire to rest himself before casting the delicate spell required to steal the powers of a dying mage. In the kitchen yard, Loki pumped water and washed himself, a deed for which he had been punished before, but at this point it no longer mattered. He washed his long hair as well as he could and combed through it with his hands before tying it back from his face with a string he had found. He would not face Justinius with tangled hair and dirt on his face like a savage.

It had been early in the day when the spell was cast, and at the same time this day it would finish. Justinius came looking for Loki after dawn, and Loki made no attempt to hide. They stood facing each other. For the first time, Justinius seemed nervous seeing Loki face him so calmly.

“Ah, if I really took an apprentice, you would have been worthy,” Justinius said, laughing to see Loki standing before him instead of cowering in a corner.

“If I live,” Loki said, keeping his voice steady, “I will be a hundred times the mage you were. You are greedy and crass. Your spells are vulgar. You care nothing for the beauty of the power you manipulate for gain alone.”

Justinius was angry now. “I have no time to beat you,” he said, “but I can always make your death last longer.”

As one hears the sound of someone approaching from afar, Loki felt the spell gathering itself, getting ready to break and release its energy. The chain around his neck grew vaguely warm. He closed his eyes.

The chain dropped off his neck. And when Justinius’ salvo hit his double’s body full on, Loki was off to one side with the Casket of Winters in his hands, freezing Justinius solid where he stood, hands outstretched, a look of horror on his face. Loki had won easily. He had planned, yes, but he had also not known his own strength until he had tried it.

With a gesture of both hands, Loki sent the casket back along the roots of the World Tree to Asgard. Like had called to like. Loki felt himself Jotunn, knew that Justinius saw his blue skin and red eyes, now fading back to what they had been before.

Within the hulk of ice Justinius still lived and saw and heard, but was paralyzed along with his magic. Loki materialized a dagger and cut off each one of Justinius’ frozen fingers in turn.

“You took thirteen apprentices,” Loki said, “and any one of us would have served you well, but you chose to throw us away. I take vengeance for all of us now.”

The ice hulk trembled as blood welled slowly through the ice around its finger stubs to the floor. Loki murmured a spell and struck off Justinius’ head with a sword conjured from nowhere. Holding out his hand, he summoned fire and burned a rune deep into Justinius’s forehead. He murmured again, then inhaled deeply, and it seemed that he breathed in sheer power. It filled his head, his chest, and passed through his body in a fierce spasm. Justinius’s powers were his, along with those of the other twelve apprentices.

As Loki’s mind expanded through the enormous might that belonged to him, his joy in winning was tempered by a shadow lurking around the edge of his thoughts. There was death here, pain and bitterness. Justinius was right to say that each Apprentice lent a unique flavor to the power he had given up so unwillingly. Loki had taken on the weight of all the lost souls contained in Justinius’s mind, and Loki, being more sensitive, felt the burden that Justinius had blithely ignored.

Loki had won, but a year of betrayal and pain had ripped from him his innocence and joy. Although he knew that Odin and Frigga and Thor had not truly said and done the things he had felt in his dreams, he no longer trusted them.

Now he waited for Thor and the others. He knew what he would do. He would send the Warriors Three towards Asgard with all the treasure they could carry, but Thor he would keep behind. Thor would see the bodies of the Apprentices and that of Justinius. He would hear of Loki’s suffering, and then Loki would take him by force. It was only right.

On the ground, Justinius’ severed head lay half frozen in a pool of bloody water. Loki noticed with a start that the lips were moving still.

“You will never be satisfied….” The words reached him like a distant sound heard on the wind. He felt them like a puff of fetid air against his face: the curse of a dying mage. Sometimes these were deadly, but others times held no force. Loki feared for a moment that it was a curse on his manhood, but then he remembered that Justinius’ magic had been taken from him before the curse was pronounced. He carried the head by its hair and burned it on a pile of wood in the kitchen yard. The body he would burn later. After moving the Apprentices and the books out of their closet, he hung Justinius’ thawing corpse from an iron hook.

***

A day after Loki removed the hex from Thor and the others they arrived at the castle, exhausted and confused, anxious about Loki’s fate. Loki greeted them wearing armor he had created for himself, all forest green and brown leather, with golden vambraces and pauldrons. He left his hair long, but groomed it carefully. Thor’s face went white with shock when they first saw each other, giving Loki a measure of how much he had changed.

He greeted the three of them courteously—Hogun having gone home to Vanaheim after arguing with the others about not immediately going back for Loki. When Fandral asked him how he had borne his captivity, Loki said, “It was trifling. The year went by so quickly, I yawned and it was over. The worst was the boredom.” They did not believe him, but they did not care to investigate further once he showed them Justinius’s treasure.

Fandral and Volstagg stayed for two days and left with a load of gold, precious stones, and ancient artifacts carried by some of the horses left in Justinius’ stable. Thor he convinced to stay with him by quietly promising to tell him more about what had really happened.

From the castle ramparts, Thor and Loki watched the others depart. They looked so small, so far off, as the horses picked their way slowly down the mountain trail. Thor’s face looked pensive.

“My brother,” he finally said, turning to face Loki, “I must beg your forgiveness. I was thoughtless and selfish, and you paid the price for it. I have had a year to think about my behavior, and I….” He took Loki by the shoulders and looked him full in the eyes. “I am sorry, and I owe you a huge debt. Can you ever forgive me?”

When Loki had thought of Thor during the year, he had never imagined him this contrite, this conscious of the damage he had caused. He thought of Thor as the one who assaulted and tormented him in dreams, and this was not he.

“Come with me, brother,” he said simply. “I must show you some things, so you will truly understand what happened here.”

Loki showed him the twelve Apprentices, carefully laid out in a courtyard. He told Thor how he had discovered them, while prowling around the castle at night, and how he had realized he was meant to be the thirteenth. He told Thor of his midnight studies, and how he had finally beaten Justinius in a battle in which his magic had proven stronger. He showed Thor Justinius’ headless body hanging in the closet, still dripping blood and water.

Together they laid out wood in the castle’s main courtyard and burned the Apprentices there, but first Loki took the silver chains from around their necks, setting them free. They burned quickly, like dry leaves in autumn, disappearing into smoke, but they would always be with him.

Then he led Thor to his own chamber, which had been Justinius’, and he filled the large tub—which truly was grand enough for four people or more—with hot water and invited Thor to wash there with him.

Removing his armor, Loki stood with his back to Thor and pulled the light tunic off over his head.

“Brother,” came Thor’s voice, almost a sob. “Oh, Loki, how he did beat you! I never thought you would still bear the marks of it.”

As if ashamed, Loki kept his face turned away. “It is nothing. My ordeal is ended now.”

“It is not nothing,” Thor cried brokenly. “Tell me. Tell me what he did.”

Loki told Thor of the strap and the rod, and how he had been beaten every day. Thor traced the welts with his finger and wept. Loki told how he had scrabbled through the kitchen seeking food, how he had spent his nights furtively learning magic, and many other terrible things, leaving out the worst—the rapes he had suffered, and the dreams he had been forced to undergo. And he never told Thor about his parentage or the anger he held towards Odin and Frigga for keeping that secret. Thor knelt to Loki and hugged his knees, crying hot tears as he begged forgiveness, and Loki relented, to a point.

He would not rape Thor. After all, he was not Justinius—he was Loki. All Justinius had gained for his cruelty was a horrible death. But Loki would seduce Thor, and when Thor became king, Loki would be there behind the throne, controlling him. Loki would gain more from forgiveness than violence. Thor would be loyal to Loki all his life, remembering the unforgiveable thing he had done to his brother.

He took Thor into his arms and wiped the tears away, whispering soft words, stroking his hair and kissing his brow. Chaste kisses soon migrated to lips, and lips opened to the unctuous intimacy of tongues. When Thor murmured a half-hearted protest, Loki had an answer ready.

“Do not fear,” he whispered. “We are princes of Asgard. Laws against incest do not apply to us, my brother.” And Thor wanted to believe him, hoped to believe that something, anything, could wipe out his guilt and sorrow.

Thor willingly abased himself, mouthing Loki’s cock as he had never done for another, kneeling with his head cushioned on his arms and his legs spread wide so that Loki could take him.

And, soon, Loki was acting out what he had always wanted to do. He was on top of Thor and in him, kissing him, fucking him, and saying all manner of things that he had always wanted to say.

Loki’s fears that Justinius’ curse had taken away his manhood proved groundless when he found his pleasure with Thor. But in his heart, all was ashes. The joy with which he would have performed this act of love was all dried up. When they had finished and he was caressing his brother and flattering him, he was thinking of the power he would wield through Thor, when Thor was king, and how he would revenge himself on Odin and make sure that no one else ever learned of his Jotunn heritage. Skeleton fingers skittered around the edge of his mind.

They bathed together, and, when they had washed and dried themselves, Loki brought wine from the cellar and they drank, lounging on the cushions by the hearth where Loki had sometimes slept. They wore loose, luxurious clothing from Justinius’s store, made of exotic fabrics with smooth textures that soothed their skin. Loki could see that Thor was relieved that something worse had not happened to Loki—that relief and Thor’s love of luxury were making him complacent. Thor was drinking too much wine, his eyes bright and glazed as he regarded the bejeweled goblets and fine fabrics with too much admiration. Loki knew his brother now, saw his weaknesses with a clear eye. Never again would he be tempted to sacrifice himself to save Thor from them.

“Do you know,” brother,” Thor began, “I was frantic with worry about you. When Justinius revealed himself as a mage, and later when we could no longer find the castle, I wondered what would happen to you without my help.” Thor laid his hand over Loki’s, caressing it familiarly, and Loki smiled. “But as it turned out, you were clever enough to find your way without me. I am proud of you, Loki, and Father will be as well.”

“It pleases me to hear you say so,” Loki answered smoothly, moving closer. Pressing his mouth to Thor’s he pushed him back against the cushions and kissed him deeply.

Thor was his, as Asgard would be. And one day he would conquer other realms—Midgard, perhaps, or Vanaheim….

Loki packed up all the books in the castle and loaded them on the last horses from the stable. The books that had saved him and the thirteen silver chains—signs of the bondage he would never forget—those were his treasure, as the gold and gems belonged to Thor and his friends. As he and Thor rode away, Loki blasted the castle with _seidr_ and watched it burn from a turn in the road far below. Justinius’ body was consumed in the flames along with the place where he had caused so much suffering.

Loki knew he would become a great mage, his power and knowledge unequaled in the Nine Realms. As soon as he was ready, he could sweep Odin out of his path like an ant and put Thor on the throne. Frigga might suspect something was amiss, but she could not protest the expected succession of her beloved natural son. Loki would send feelers everywhere, into every realm, undermining and stealing power where he found it. Thor would be Loki’s lover, his pawn, slowly corrupted by a love of wealth and luxury, by his foolishness and lack of self-control. And, suspecting nothing, the Aesir would follow him into darkness.

The sons of Odin’s old age, last hope for Asgard, were going home.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed reading this story, please return to the archive and leave kudos or comments. Thanks!
> 
> If you are an artist and you would consider creating an illustration for this story, please contact me through the comments.


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